Hazy Acres

It could write something and copy someone else 

Or sit each morning and decide It had nothing to write

It could wait for the perfect word

And write for someone else 

It could say It will write tomorrow 

And tomorrow It could say it again

It could wake up and lay on the couch 

It could turn the television on and be a loaf

And decide not to write 

But its not about the writing is it 

Or the image 

Or sound 

Theres an energy asking to be played with 

Its there always 

In the eyes of others 

On the chair in some throw away material 

Down the street on the phone call about politics 

There’s an energy yelling and begging 

Or you sleep harder and ignore it 

Somedays you certainly do 

It would like to more often 

Be alive in the spaces to share 

It could be It will write something else later

And truthfully It hates this piece already 

If it were about these words it would matter

The ritual is baked in now and able to move 

Freely 

To play and wait 

To watch and play 

It could say whats the point of it 

Who cares

It’s heroes wouldn’t like it 

Its too spiritual 

Or too esoteric

Or not smart enough 

Or trying too hard to be too smart 

Frame it up as you wish

Sprinkle the doubt and spin into a frenzy

Yet the energy is the same 

It sits there like a small child on the edge of a cliff 

Looking down on other energy 

Looking up on other energy 

Just before it jumps 

And lets it go again 

Again in the way you see something so small for the thousandth time 

And each time it resonates with soul 

That little space which is the foundation for all the bigger spaces 

Playing their pieces and letting them go 

It needs no words to convey this energy

And one day It might not ever speak again 

As it will evolve outside the formal meaning of language 

And stand in for all the spaces left unsaid 

Carrying and delivering 

The quiet place of being

Thorns on a side

Thorns on a tongue

Now flat and smooth and belonging

Silently